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Rome was one of Louis’s favourite cities to visit. He liked how it seemed caught between the past and the present, millennium-old ruins standing only a few feet away from the upscale modern villas and the glass skyscrapers.
These days, Louis rarely ventured out of the Dubai penthouse, let alone out of the country. But when Armand had proposed this three-day trip under the guise of meeting with some important art dealer, Louis had agreed to come.
He knew that Armand was worried, that he could feel Louis slipping away from him and back into his hardened dissociative shell. The trip was Armand’s attempt to reawaken Louis’s passion, to reconquer their earlier romance. Louis didn’t have the heart to tell Armand it was all in vain. Being in Rome was a nice reprieve, but it could not erase the cloud of melancholy that Louis dragged around at all times, and that only seemed to get heavier with each passing decade.
Tonight, they were visiting Louis’s favourite museum in the city. Armand had managed to arrange for the place to stay open past hours, so that the two of them might tour it at their leisure, undisturbed by the usual gaggle of tourists with their loud chatter and camera flashes.
They moved lazily in between the displays, taking their time to observe the artworks up close—a privilege that was only afforded to a rare few. Armand wandered away to look at the collection of ancient vases, while Louis continued on to the main gallery that was reserved for the sculptures.
The pieces were all exquisite, displayed on pedestals or nestled into alcoves. The sculptures looked strikingly life-like, as if the artist had caught their subjects mid-action and found a way to turn them to stone, forever preserving their expressions in the marble.
Louis came upon a statue that particularly caught his attention. It was colossal, standing at nearly 17 ft tall, sculpted from radiant Carrara marble and polished so that it caught and reflected the light around it, the shadows playing alluringly on the sculpted muscles. The young man depicted was standing tall, his left hip slightly tilted, his weight resting on his left leg in a pose that conveyed both graceful power and sensuality.
Louis felt an eerie sense of longing and familiarity as he gazed up at the youthful face, the head of thick curls, the sensuous lips that were slightly pouting. Even the slender and yet muscular form felt very familiar. Louis knew he was not supposed to touch any of the carefully preserved art pieces but something about the statue made him wish he could reach up and caress the smooth face, graze his hands along the taut muscles of the abdomen. He was almost convinced the stone would be warm, like real skin, velvety smooth and soft to the touch.
“Do you like it?” Armand whispered from right behind him.
Louis turned, startled. He hadn't even felt Armand approaching, absorbed as he was in his contemplation.
“Yes, I do,” he said, his voice hushed reverently as he gazed at the statue again. “It seems so lifelike and so strangely familiar, like someone I might have known in another life.”
Louis chuckled lightly at his own ridiculousness and the fact a piece of carved stone could arouse so much emotion in him. When he turned around, Armand was looking at him with a puzzled expression, his lips pulled in a slight pout. Suddenly, the pieces came together in Louis's mind.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Louis exclaimed. “The model for the statue, it’s you!”
Armand gave him a small smile. “Yes, Michelangelo was well acquainted with my…former master. It was not uncommon for the boys at the palazzo to visit his workshop and pose for a few hours in exchange for a few coins.
Louis stared at him in awe, trying to wrap his head over what that must have been like; to have lived that long and to have seen face to face all these marvels that Louis would only ever read in a book. To actively be a part of such a rich and complex history.
“It is not as alluring as it sounds,” Armand said with a low chuckle. “It mostly involved standing around for several hours in very uncomfortable poses. I still remember the cramps in my arms and legs from this particular one.” He crooked his head sideways, his eyes skimming the length of the statue.
Louis reached out and touched his face, tracing over the arch of the brow, the curved bow of his lips, running a hand through his black curls, mirroring the same pattern he had longed to follow on his marble effigy.
“Well, now I know it for a fact,” Louis whispered, “You truly are a work of art, my love.”
Armand’s breath hitched and he let out a choked gasp, his amber eyes blinked rapidly. His mouth opened to form words that never came. Louis felt a wave of guilt wash over him, like a gaping chasm opening up in his chest. The man he’d been living with for nearly 80 years was so unused to affection on Louis's part that he was left stunned by a simple compliment. Louis had been so caught up in his own suffering and reminiscing about his painful past that he'd completely neglected to appreciate all the splendour that was around him. And worst of all, Louis had neglected to cherish the most precious thing that he had now—this beautiful man right in front of him.
Louis felt so grateful that Armand had remained at his side, unwavering for all these years, a steady and comforting presence among the tumult that had been most of Louis's life.
He leaned forward and kissed Armand, allowing himself to linger, to fully savour the moment. He let his hand roam over Armand’s face, his hair, his shoulders, feeling his graceful muscles shift under the light linen shirt he was wearing.
He relished the reaction he got from Armand, the way his perpetually stiff shoulders slumped forward as he leaned closer, positively melting into Louis's touch. It was the most alive Louis had felt in a long time.
“Thank you for insisting on this vacation my love,” he pulled back to gaze into Armand's eyes. “I’m glad we came here. I’m glad I came to Rome, with you.”
Armand nodded, his eyes slightly misted over.
“Do you think we’d be able to buy it?” Louis asked, turning to look up at the statue again. “Transport would be a nightmare but it would look so lovely in my office don’t you think?” It was a joke, of course. Such works were never for sale, not even to people who disposed of infinite wealth like he and Armand did.
“I can make inquiries,” Armand said in all seriousness.
“No don’t trouble yourself. I think I much prefer the real thing.” And he kissed Armand again, walking him back into a dark alcove. He was really glad they had the museum all to themselves for the rest of the night.
Three weeks after they returned home, a package arrived at the Dubai penthouse. It was unusually large, needing two burly delivery men to carry it out of the private elevator. Louis thought nothing of it at first. It was probably another one of the modern gadgets that Armand was so fond of and that Louis had to fight him on to keep from taking over their entire home.
But when Louis came back later, he found that the package, still packed into its wooden crate, had been placed in his office and not in Armand’s cluttered workshop.
Later that evening, when Armand returned from his hunt, Louis asked about it.
“You haven’t opened it yet?” Armand asked, surprised.
“No, I wanted to wait for your return. What is it? I hope it's not a projector screen, we already have two of those in every room...”
“No, it's not a piece of technology Carino, it's a painting.”
Intrigued, Louis trailed behind him as he walked to Louis’s office. Armand made quick work of the crate, prying the thick slabs of wood away with ease before lifting the painting from the wrapping foam and placing it delicately down.
It was very large, nearly as tall as Louis was, and probably older than he was by several centuries. It depicted a young man, hanging from a cross, both his sides pierced with black arrows. It was masterfully painted of course, and was obviously carefully preserved. But it was not the mastery that caught Louis’s attention, it was the young man himself.
"Saint Sebastian by Sandro Botticelli," Armand explained.
It was Armand, his same youthful face, his same beautiful dusky skin, the dark curls tumbling down to his shoulders.
“It’s beautiful,” Louis said, his fingers lightly grazing the frame.
“I couldn’t get you the statue—some nonsense about regulations on the sale of protected historical heritage—but I was able to get you this.”
“Thank you, my love,” Louis said, “But as I said before, I prefer to have the real thing.”
And he pulled Armand in for a lingering kiss.
